


bewitched

by whimsicalwords



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence - No Grindelwald, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light BDSM, M/M, My First Fanfic, Oral Sex, Potions, Scars, Sharing a Bed, taking care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-24 10:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalwords/pseuds/whimsicalwords
Summary: For the first time in many years, Credence feels safe.Or: three times Mr. Graves takes care of Credence, and how he repays him.





	bewitched

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writingramblr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/gifts).



> **bewitch**  
>  _verb_  
>  1\. to influence or affect especially injuriously by witchcraft  
> 2\. to cast a spell over  
> 3\. to attract as if by the power of witchcraft : _e n c h a n t, f a s c i n a t e - bewitched_ by his beauty

he first time it’s quit innocent: his fingers brush a ted bit to the side, over the hem of Credence’s sleeve, and his eyes shine with a meaning Credence is not fully aware of. It feels a little like magic, raw and feather-soft, enough to make him think: _Does he feels this?_ He envisions Mr. Graves must, otherwise he might start crying, and he promised him, really, he shan’t. 

 

When Mr. Graves brought him to his apartment on a winter morning and asked him, kindly, to sit on the sofa and stay still, Credence complied. He wants to be a good boy, to make Mr. Graves proud of him. So, despite the bleak cold biting at his skin, shivering or not, his body stays strained like an arrow drawn tight, hands glued at his side, to the linen fabric beneath his fingers, while he peers up at the table, where Mr. Graves is working with a steady flicker of a hand. Credence finds it difficult not to take his eyes away from him, tries to measure the hours by the beating of his own heart. For his calculations he reckons it must be past nine by the time Mr. Graves pauses to look at him, sweating behind a column of thick smoke.

There is a caldron over the table, a real caldron, steaming and slurping and blobbing, not like the small, half-thorn drawings his mother talks about.

“It won’t take long,” Mr. Graves promised him, squelching the salve until the draught turns a vivid green, then ladling a fistful of it into a small glass jar, right beside him.   

The room it’s hot, very, very hot, and both of them had already taken their jackets and waistcoats off – Credence feels this is a little like sinning, witnessing Mr. Graves chop a portion of salve, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the collar of his thin, white shirt unbuttoned to half, letting more skin out than he has ever saw before.

“Yes, Mr. Graves.”

It takes only a moment for the salve to blend with the thick mixture, leaving the room smelling like cut-grass at sunrise. This is magic, he realizes, not the swift wave of a wand or reading the stars or seeing the future on the palms of a hand, but it’s still magic, bound strong by the candid lilt of an enchantment whispered at close hours.

“Do you know what this is?”

With his eye cast on the floor, he can hear the sound of Mr. Graves steps getting close.

“No, sir,” Credence says, voice muffled. He is not smart, not like Mr. Graves, his Ma taught him only how to write, and the bible is the only book he was allowed to read, Credence knows it by heart now. _Or_ , to put it more simply: he lets the thinking to Mr. Graves; he is just the patronage, a stone on which Jacob built the temple; it’s not his duty to know more than is given to him.

“It’s a medicinal balm for soothing wounds,” Mr. Graves says curtly, crouching in front of him, clasping Credence’s thin, bone-light wrist around his fingers. “It will staunch the blood and stop the pain, but the marks will stay there. This way, your mother will have nothing to suspect.”

“T-thank you.” Credence bows his head, politely. “You didn’t need to bother yourself with me.”

“It’s not a bother, remember that,” he whispers, lips brushing against knuckles in a ghost of a kiss.

His hand is a big and warm one, Credence thinks, fitting perfectly around his own, as if it was made to be there, his skin rather dump from all the brewing and labors. He holds it close to exanimate Credence’s wounds, turning his wrist up in the light of the room. With his other hand, he reaches for the glass jar.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Mr. Graves says. He brushes his fingers over the patch of Credence’s skin, caressing him, rubbing across the scars in a sinful, tempting way that makes Credence’s heart thrust inside its narrow, septic cage, and a leapt later, he is leaning into him, bespelled.      

“It feels hot,” Credence stutters, blushing just so, when the meaning of his words start to sink. “I mean… the potion.”                          

“ _Ah_ ,” Mr. Graves chuckles, stroking a finger over one of Credence’s welts. The notches crisscrossing from the palm of his hand to the inception of his arms are scabby red, beginning to turn a paper, thin white. “What about this one?”     

“I burn some clothes with the iron. Ma said I was not careful.” His voice is weak, but he wills himself to talk. He must. This is the foundation of his being, a recollection from the memories of his past, each converging on this particular moment, with Mr. Graves’s thumbprints pressing down at his skin. “That one…” he points to a half-moon marked up the side of his arm. “I didn’t pray three times like I should, Ma hit me with the belt and put salt on my wounds, to repent for my sins. And this one, it was yesterday. I said I was looking for a place for our next meeting, but I was… I was with you. Ma always knows if I’m lying. She says she can smell it on me.” And sometimes, when she doesn’t, she hit him either way to teach him properly.

“There, that should be better,” Mr. Graves says, and Credence feels a small tingle up from his arm, spreading across his whole body. “Your mother… Does she punish your sister like this?” His voice is low, tender-soft.           

Credence can’t discriminate the times she bates him from his sister, both sting too much and he is used to it, or rather: a part of him rejoins over the ministrations, that is, knowing Mr. Graves is going to heal him after. Even if it’s only a small comfort, he would gladly pay for it.

“She hits them too, especially Modesty, since she is not of age, and it’s easy to straightness us from small. But she hits me the most because my true mother… she was a wicked woman, and if I’m not bended properly, Ma thinks I will turn just like her,” he mumbles out, eyes turned to an invisible point on the wall, head ducked down, near the sheared sides of Mr. Graves hoary hairs.

And he… he shouldn’t be kneeling in front of Credence, like he is something worthy of it.

“Oh, Credence,” Mr. Graves murmurs across the shell of his ears, a hand anchored down on his neck, and Credence flinches, captivated, breath catch at the back of his throat. “This, I won’t let it happen again, I promise you. Do you believe me?”

Credence nods. “I do.”

“Good, I will find a way to take you out of there,” Mr. Graves says, setting aside the vial, voice wrapped soft with pity, as if there was nothing in the world he would want more than that.

Then he pulls him down into a strangled embrace, fingers sliding along the vein between his elbows and his wrist, pressing onto the skin there. Credence tries to stay very still, but it’s too late; Mr. Graves has already seen him wince. He pulls the sleeve up, gently, and Credence measures the seconds it must had taken before he realizes what is carved on the open book that he is.

These scars are not like the other ones on the palm of Credence’s hands. The skin of his mutilated arm is encased by twisted, ugly lines, running up and down to form a single word. Credence tries to jerk away from his touch and scramble to the other side of the room, but Mr. Graves coils a firm hand at the nape of his neck, keeping him in place.    

“I’m sorry. I-I shouldn’t…” he mumbles out, drawing his head between his own legs, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes from the shame of it.

It was three and half a month ago, when Credence has waited by the door of Mr. Graves’s bathroom, thinking about how would it be like to open it a little bit, to sneak inside, where Mr. Graves was taking a hot bath, smoldered by the smoke in the room. He doesn’t know whether it was only on his head or if he has unclosed the door and seen the outline of Mr. Graves’s sinfully-tempting, half-erect cock, the fuzzy dark crest of hair curled at the base of it inviting and strangely alluring. Credence is not – like the men Ma often talks about, who lust after another’s male’s body, not at all, but Mr. Graves’s muscles made his mouth water and his cock stir in a way it never had before.

Later, when he is all alone on his own lumpy bed, Credence has brought a hand _down there_ and jerked of at the thought of Mr. Graves’s body against his. He came harder than he ever had, more than in his dreams. On the next morning, his Ma found out, when he was bundling the sheets of the mattress to wash them out by the outside faucet, and burned his right hand with a heated iron kettle. This same day, Credence has brought a hand upon his lower arm to rectify his sinful actions: the knife was sharp and cold across the patch of his skin, and how he has turned up writing Mr. Graves’s name on it, is still a mystery to him.

“Mr. Graves…”      

“Hush. You don’t need to apologize to me. Not ever.”

“I’m a freak.”     

“You are different, and there is nothing wrong with it,” He cups a hand around Credence chin and smiles. With his head gently titled up, Credence finds he can’t avert his gaze, even if he wanted to. “Frankly, I’m a little flattered.”

Credence doesn’t quit understand what he means. Mr. Graves is an incognita, really, and Credence’s body is in an abolition to solve it out.

“Does it hurt?” His words are wrapped in velvet around the edges, laden with an intonation Credence has never heard before.

“Yes, but I don’t mind,” he says, and then adds, before twisting his arm away from where it was perfectly enclosed around Mr. Graves’s fingers, “Please don’t erase it, I-I like to feel the pain. It makes me think about you.” 

“I won’t,” he gasps, moving to sit at Credence’s side, near his burning body. “Show me again. I want to see it.” 

And Credence does. Slowly, he places his arm again in front of Mr. Graves, scars glittering in the moonlight. Of sudden, Mr. Graves reaches for his arm, mesmerized, as if unaware of his own movements, and brings it to the curve of his own lips, pressing a kiss onto the scarred skin, rashes and all, and Credence feels something seething churn up inside his chest, both right and sinful wrong at the same part. It’s like that time he has touched himself thinking about Mr. Graves, only stronger, raw.     

At first, Credence thinks this is a strange dream: sinful strokes, wet and whirled, but Mr. Graves’s tongue feels so real, licking across the cluster of scars, and Credence is mortified at the tenderness of the touch. His breath is hot against the hair of his right arm and his stubble feels roughish brushing onto Credence’s skin; a gratuitous seed of despair. He closes his eyes against his own slaughter and opens his lips an inch to let out an “ _Oh_ ”, and then Mr. Graves is pulling him down onto the sofa, his whole body pressed over his, from the crest of Credence’s ugly, fitful hair to the length of his own legs wrapped around his, the jut of his ridge going up and down beneath him in a whooping sound; Credence wonders if Mr. Graves can hear it.

He doesn’t care, not at all, but he still urges himself to say it. “My Ma… if I’m not home…”

“Stay at least until tomorrow,” Mr. Graves asks, above a whisper. “There is nothing to fear. Not this night. I will make sure she will not punish you for this.”

Credence believes him, truly, because witches can erase the memories from good Christians and steals their cattle’s milk and makes them do anything they want, or so he was told. It must be true: Credence himself can do nothing to resist the sinful thoughts skirting at the corner of his mind.     

Without taking his arms from around his, Mr. Graves leans down, whispering at his ears, “Sleep. You are safe with me.”

And Credence heavy, heavy eyelids fall shut, as if in a spell. He falls asleep, instantaneously. 

 

The next time they meet is snowing nonstop, and there are tears trickling along his cheeks and cold biting at the corners of his fingers and a rushed moment of pain before everything turns black, for a second, and then the feeling of arms winding around him, burning incessantly against his cold skin. When he opens his eyes, they are on Mr. Graves’s living room again near the back door, where, Credence remembers, it’s his private room. He blushes, but in the dim light, maybe, just maybe he hasn’t seen it.

Mr. Graves blows out a sight of exasperation, hot skin burning against his cold fingers. He entwines them in his leather gloves: black, slink and soft at the palm of his hands, more so than that time Mr. Graves has bought him a silk scarf as a present and Credence has wrapped it around his shoulders because it still had the smell of him, still does, if he closes his eyes and pretends it's him.

“You look half-sick. Has your mother been working you out?”

“I-I’m used to it,” he murmurs, shaking his head, teeth chattering with the cold. “Please, sir, let me come back, I haven’t delivered all the papers.”

A frown crosses Mr. Graves face. “Come now, are you afraid she will find out?”

“I-I” Credence feels as if he has forgotten how to talk.

“Pass me the papers.” He takes them out of Credence’s shaky hands and throws it out onto the fireplace. “There, that’s better. You have nothing to worry about.”

“But…”

“Wait here, can you do this?”

“Yes…”

It takes only a moment for Mr. Graves to arrive, with a towel on his hand. 

“Let me undress you,” he states as a matter of fact, ignoring the way Credence’s mouth falls open in a little “ _o”_ of surprise. Mr. Graves is a very strange man, all the more for his soft, wonderful hands, unblemished by years of work. Perhaps its magic, Credence thinks, as Mr. Graves starts to strip off his clothes. First the waist jacket, the undercoat and the shirt, too, then he bends down to unbuckle Credence’s belt, letting his trousers slip to the floor, as well as the his pants, until Credence is completely naked, stripped layer by layer, leaving nothing but shame on him.

It’s quick, quicker than Credence first thought. Mr. Graves bundles him in a towel, rubs him dry and warmth with a firm movement of his hands, and Credence let’s him, the mess of him clinging to Mr. Graves’s body, both scared and attracted.

“Mr. Graves…”

“Shhhh… That’s a good boy. I’m here. I’m going to take good care of you,” Mr. Graves says, scooping him up into his arms, hauling him to the next room across a narrow row.

Credence closes his eyes, only opens them when he feels his body being laid down onto a soft mattress, so different than his own.

Sitting beside him on the bed, Mr. Graves leans down to place a kiss on his temple, just an inch away from his ear, a tiny, soft brush of lips, just enough to make Credence wonder if it was real. “You need to rest,” he instructs, and now Credence is absolutely sure it’s the pressure of his mouth that he feels against his skin, that small, wisp of a thing.  

At that moment, Credence titles his face a little to the side, for their lips to touch in a whisper of a kiss, innocent and wrong and so, so captivating, while his hands find a way to pull him down onto his body before he realizes what he is really doing. The thing about this is: he has not really thought it through; he doesn’t think he has the brains for, his head feels dizzy and his muscles hurt all along his body, like tiny needles pricking at his skin. But at the back of his mind there is something that screams “ _More!_ ”

Once Credence begins to shy away from his lips, Mr. Graves’s hand grasps his head back in place, pulling at the base of his hair. A wet tongue licks for entrance, hungry, trusting little by little inside, and Credence, or rather the thing churning deep inside his chest, purrs into him, arching. The string of obscene noises Mr. Graves is letting can be heard from the other side of the room – Credence wants to stop, he tries it very hard, but the “ _Ah_ ” Mr. Graves grunts into his mouth is doing nothing to quell Credence’s treacherous thoughts.        

It takes some minutes, but it looks to Credence like it was hours before they depart, still unruly, anguish from the kiss.

“ _Please, please, please,_ don’t stop. I-I dream about this since the first day I meet you,” he confesses, inhaling sharply. “I use to pretend that at one of our alley’s meetings… you would… you would touch me down there, a-and you would ask me to undress a-and I would do it and go on my knees, like an easy woman.” With his cheeks blotched a pretty dark pink, clenching and clinging at the sheets, Credence averts his gaze, frightfully, eyes cast on the floor as his heart beats quickly against his chest. “I wanted you so much that I-I touched myself thinking about it.”

He has licked the sin of his fingers, swollen it down and pretended it was Mr. Graves’s one.

“If I had known, Credence, I would have taken you right there, for the whole world to see.”

“Mr. Graves, please…” Credence plies and asks and begs, voice husky and velvety-deep.   

It takes some time for Mr. Graves to recollect himself. “You don’t know the things I want to do with you.”

“I don’t mind. I-I want it too.”

“Credence…”

“I know it’s a sin that it’s wicked and wrong, but I can’t help it, when I’m with you.”

It’s a curious thing; every time they are together Credence can’t stop the words from bubbling out of his mind, the careful, scolded expression on his face half-forgotten behind.

“Ask me again after you are better, and I will not refuge you,” Mr. Graves promise him. “You are very sick, Credence, and you need to rest.” His big, broad hands push him down onto the mattress again. Mr. Graves has a compelling voice, enticing, and Credence, as a matter of fact, finds it hard to disobey, even if he wishes for more – only for a whimsical, chip of a moment, he doesn’t want to be ungrateful.       

So he complies and lies down at his left side, one hand slightly cupped, resting across his chest. It must be the fever playing all short of tricks on him, he thinks; misleading his mind with all short of dangerous, wicked, err thoughts. Otherwise it won’t even occur to him saying them out loud, least of all in front of _him_. 

Mr. Graves leaps to his feet, but before he moves, Credence grasps him by the arm, eyes fluttering open in desperation. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. I-I shouldn’t have say that. I don’t know what came over me,” he mutters, afraid to be left alone, like when he was a kid, and spend all day rounded by other dirty, starving children, each one forgotten in the hustle of the day, putted aside for other more determinant works. That was before he was adopted; sometimes he still wishes he was there.

“Hush,” Mr. Graves coos, pressing a hand along the scar with his name, without even noticing it. “I’m not going anywhere. But you need to take something for the fever.”

 

A few days later, Credence was still drinking all sorts of nasty potions. From pale-green to the smoke-blue, which tasted a little like rotten eggs, Mr. Graves has brewed all kind of things to no avail: Credence shakes and shakes and shakes his head every time he asks him if he is feeling better, pretending it’s true.  

His Ma use to say witches can sneak inside your mind, and if they find you are lying, they will they punish you for it, destroying your harvest or killing your kettle or bringing bad luck to your house on the years to come. Perhaps they can really do it, yet Credence can’t will himself to say the true.

 

One night, he rises from the bed and goes to Mr. Graves’s room, crawling onto the mattress, besides his luring, sinfully body. The walls are illuminated by the fireplace, wood crackling and spluttering with a small hiss, enough for Credence to make out the outlines of his sleeping form. It’s a cold night, this one, the rain trashing onto the window in a _drip drop_ sound as Credence nestles his face in the crock of Mr. Graves’s shoulder. There is a moment where he thinks he might fall asleep, but then he hears a noise, a sudden shift, and a fist curls around his neck, sifting him down, so that he is pressed against the cushion, with Mr. Graves’s body on top of him. When he finally blinks and stops to look at him, Credence is already gasping for breath. 

 “Credence…”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come,” he lets out, voice muffled at the edges before Mr. Graves extracts his hand away. “But I c-couldn’t sleep and I wanted to see you.” His eyes flew wide in startlement, when he realizes Mr. Graves is completely naked, save from a flimsy layer of sheets. 

There is a small pause, and then Mr. Graves asks, a smirk twisting at the corners of his lips, “Have you been thinking about me?” He presses his body down with intend, and Credence squirms. He is fully aware how hard he is, inside the robe now partially open, showing part of his thighs, soft and creamy-white and untouched by the sun or another’s touch.        

“Yes…”

“You have been a bad boy, lying to me , pretending you were still sick, after all I have done for you,” Mr. Graves smirks, fingers fumbling with the rope around his hips, unfastening it, until the fabric slides away and Credence is stark naked beneath him. “You need to be punished, Credence.

He lets that be a lesson to him: to never try again to trick a witch, because they always know when you are lying, even when they don’t say so.

Oh, how foolish he feels.

The laws of nature proclaim that gravity plus weight determinates the speed of fall, and Mr. Graves is a very strong man, with a large body, so Credence can do nothing but relish in the power of it, of being subdued by a firm grip, utterly beneath his control. His eyelashes and his pink, pouty lips fall open in surprise, the pneumonic engine of his lungs heaving up and down.

“Are you angry at me, sir? I wanted to stay with you. Was so afraid you were going to send me back home.”

This few days have been a heaven of shorts, and Credence would hate to lose it all again. It’s was unfair, cruel, to experience such kindness only for it to be taken away.

Mr. Graves chuckles. “I could never be angry with you,” he brings Credence’s hand to his groin, to the half-harden, thick bulge between his legs. “This is because of you. I should be asleep; tomorrow I have to get to work at six, but you wake me up.”         

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“It’s you who decides, not me. If you don’t want to we don’t have to do it, but I promised you it would be pleasurable, an experience you would never forget about.”

“But it’s wrong, between a man and another's. I shouldn’t demean you to this short of things,” Credence whispers, but he rises to meet his touch.

The priest and the police and the voices across the street, everyone says so. And how could he like pain, how could he find it pleasurable, when he trembles every time he hears the sound of a belt being unbuckled?   

“There is no law in the wizard community against taking another man to bed. Nothing that forbids it,” Mr. Graves murmurs, sliding a hand along his chest, tentatively, teeth scraping down into his neck.

“Oh, I didn’t know,” he gasps as Mr. Graves’s hands stop at the jute of his hip, anchored near his untoward source of discomfort between his legs. “I-I couldn’t sleep this last few days, thinking that you were on the other side of the wall.”

It’s tempting to have him so near because Mr. Graves’s hands are so delightfully warmth –and if what people say about the size of the hands being related to down _there_ is true, than Mr. Graves doesn’t lack in any way. And Credence knows he doesn’t, that he is a proper man, rightful, every tiny bit of him, and that it’s only Credence sinful mind that is tempting himself with dirty, wrong thoughts, not certainly Mr. Graves, who is just touching him to calm Credence down, if it doesn’t work is his fault alone.

“Do it,” Credence begs, finally, leaning onto him and shivering at his touch. “ _Please…_ ”

He turns his face away, squeezes his eyes closed to the sight of him. His neck still hurts and his cock is drooling with pre-come, flushed red and looking as if it was already ravished, and the heavy smell of Mr. Graves’s cologne up so close only makes him more nervous, teasing at his senses, his whole body jerking in small movements, twisting away and then into him. He clenches at the sheets and waits for the slaughter, bites his lips to keep the please inside his mouth.  

Mr. Graves doesn’t need to be asked twice. He hauls Credence to his lap, straddling him, fingers hard on the smooth skin of his hips. With his other hand, he spreads Credence’s legs apart, their cocks rubbing together, and Credence, who has never done anything of the sorts, never dared to dream about it, feels himself wholly tremble into the touch, whimpering back a broken moan because he doesn’t want to seem needy, otherwise Mr. Graves might grow tired of him – and he doesn’t want to seem aloof too, less Mr. Graves think he is not passionate enough.

But if he is cold and barren, or at least tries to be, Mr. Graves is the exact reverse: teethes scraping, voice hoarse, sultry and gruff. Credence counts the beatings of his heart: one, too, three, and then a hand takes to his cock, slowly, moving along the span on the head, and there is something pressed against his stomach, warmth and “ _oh_ ” slicked hard. Desperately, Credence rolls against it, looks for absolution, but finds none.

Instead, Mr. Graves strokes him with calm, patient movements, teasing him mercilessly, until Credence is squeaking and mewling, feeling a bolt of electricity twist fiercely inside his chest.

“Don’t muffle your cries. I want to hear you scream,” Mr. Graves urges him, stationing a hand on the creak of his ass, rubbing at the entrance there in small, teasing circles. “You are beautiful like this, I wish you could see it. I don’t know how I kept my hands to myself this long.”

Credence feels something sticky-wet, and deliciously warmth plunge into his hole, scissoring him open, probing and wriggle, until he bites with the row of his front teeth into his half-bowed lip, the metallic taste of blood stuck at the back of his mouth.

“Do you know what I’m going to do now, Credence? I’m going to take you from inside.”

Oh! Mr. Graves is going to debauch him.

The finger is inserted to his knob, so thigh it feels as if it’s digging at his flesh now. It’s not like one of his wet dreams, or when he touches himself down there, or even like the feeling of Mr. Grave’s hand on his cock, nothing of the sorts. It dirty, twisted and it feels so right, as if his whole body was made for this. And it feels strange, too, because nobody has touched him there, not even himself, and Credence didn’t know man could do this sort of things with each other, almost in the same way a woman would lie with her husband. He hides his face in the pillar of Mr. Graves’s neck, pressing gentle kisses down, worshiping him.   

“God, I want to make you mine, Credence. Take you to my bed every single night,” He breaths out at the shell of Credence’s ear, breath ragged and so teasingly hot that Credence feels his whole body snapping in two. It’s too much: the hand on his cock, his voice, the digit ravishing restlessly at some strange place inside him, until Credence is broken and sobbing and thrusting into his finger.

“I-I want to be yours,” Credence begs, grabbing him tightly for support. “Please, Mr. Graves…”

“You will. That’s why I need you to open yourself for me.” He penetrates him with another spit-sleek finger, stretching him proper and wide. “Can you do this?”     

“Y-yes.”

“That’s my boy.”

A fire bursts inside his groins, smoldering hot and piercing through him in waves of sweet pleasure, more so when Mr. Graves finds the place inside him he has been looking for and pushes into it, and Credence feels his whole body shudder, relinquishing in the pure rhythm of their bodies. Its feels like he was set on fire and then plunge in deep waters, like that time Credence has ducked his head inside the water of the tub and counted to thirteen and thought how would be like if he could stay there.

“I-I feel so full…” Credence whimpers, bereft of any shame, legs parting open to give more space to Mr. Grave’s fingers to work their magic there.

“Imagine how it would feel if it was my cock instead of my hand.”

Credence gasps, the thought making the blush spread from his cheeks to the head of his cock, dripping wet with come. “Can we do it, like a man and a woman do?” he asks, turning his had to look at him, hips jerking, and jaw slacked open in a wordless cry. “Is it… Is it possible? Please, Mr. Graves.”

“Almost everything is possible and there is nothing I won’t do for you, but not this time, I want you to get used to the feeling first.” He kisses the crooked line on Credence’s scars, over the “R” of his own name and then he bites down, a red mark spoiling the creamy-white skin  – the letter reminds him of the “R” on religion, he thinks about that every night before he falls asleep.

Credence’s body is a temple and Mr. Graves is plundering, carefully, inside his walls. Lifting Credence’s legs to lock them around his hips, adding a third finger, until Credence is mewling into him, biting his tongue to muffle out a cry. Only then Mr. Graves inserts another finger on his delicate, pink-fleshed hole, rubbing along the rim, fondly, before letting it slip inside.   

By the time he starts to move them, Credence cock is so painfully hard, trapped between their sweet, hot bodies, it’s a wonder how he hasn’t come before yet.    

“You are so tight, Credence, it makes me harder. Tell me I’m the first one to see you like this.”

Credence wants to, really, he tries to say so, and also append it’s not his fault the walls of his crack clench stubbornly around Mr. Graves’s fingers, but he founds he has no voice. It’s his first time and he wants it to be perfect, magical, doesn’t want to bother Mr. Graves with the inconvenience of his virginity, except he seems to find the idea of taking his all the more appealing, and Credence thinks he would die just to have him.

“Credence…” Mr. Graves’s voice comes is a warning, but too late: Credence hears the _smack_ before he fully processes what is happening, pain spiking at his bottom’s cheeks.

Mr. Graves has hit him, as if he was a spoiled child, with a strong firm hold of hand. His cheeks are burning, chafed and swollen-red, and tears run along his face, all the more because Mr. Graves’s nails dented at the curve of his ass. The pain melts with the pleasure from his fingers to form a firm knot inside his tummy, and Credence can’t differentiate between the two, both tempting in equal measures.

When Mr. Graves slaps him again, this time Credence is prepared. He braces for the third one, matches his breath to Mr. Graves’s pace. Just manners die hard, and Credence is quit used to pain, thought nothing like this, he never leaked at the feeling of another’s hand, never dreamt pain might be that pleasurable.          

“Only you… _ahhhh_ … You are my first one.” Credence blithers, words coming out of his mouth, unbidden. “I dreamt about this, no matter how many times I prayed, I couldn’t… I couldn’t control myself when you were near.”

“You don’t need to, not anymore.”

Credence hooks his legs around Mr. Graves’s torso, propping himself for support. “It hurt so much…”

“Do you want me to stop?” Mr. Graves pauses the ministrations, and Credence’s swollen cock trembles with the lack of attention.  

“N-no, I like it… I like everything you do to me.”                 

“Then come for me, Credence. I want to hear your voice.”

“Mr. Graves…”

At once, Credence’s whole body jolted awake, then his mouth formed an “ _O_ ”, and he finally comes across their bodies in a ribbon of splattered white, tarnishing Mr. Graves’s stomach with the evidence of his pleasure.    

He lets his body rest against the other’s shoulders, boneless, feeling his muscles go lax with exhaustion. 

When his breath calms down, Credence notices there is something still hard and unbearable hot nudging at the scars of his arm, rubbing into him for friction.

Mr. Graves has not come yet! How could he be so selfish? After all the kindness he has bestowed upon him… and he has done nothing but neglect him in detriment of pleasure. His throat grows dry and Credence averts his eyes to the floor. Now there is no way Mr. Graves will want to do this sort of things again after Credence has disappointed him so fully. And this is somehow much worse than never being able to touch him, to think he had him for only a moment before he was taken away.

“I-I’m sorry, sir. It was such an easy thing to do and I couldn’t pleasure you.”

 “Hush, what are you talking about? I wanted to give you _this_ , there is no need for you to repay me back.”

“But I want to see you come. Please, could you teach me, Mr. Graves?” Credence begs, desperately, and clutch into him and flutters his dark, tiny eyelashes in a way it’s supposed to be attractive, but Credence knows nothing about seduction, so he can’t be really sure.

Mr. Graves nods. “Come here,” he asks while he moves his legs aside, Credence is sited between them, head bowed down. He grasps his cock and then brings it to Credence’s pouty swollen lips, instructing him to move closer, with a firm hand at the back of his skull. Credence complies; he always does no matter what Mr. Graves asks him to.

"Open your mouth, yes, just like this. That will make it easier,” he instructs, a finger rendered at the corner of Credence’s lips, pressing into it. “Credence... I want to come inside you."  

The bed sifts under them as Credence opens his mouth and partakes in the sweet taste of him.  

Credence lips falls open before he swallows him, and then there are gasps and rumbles and groans of “so good”, “that’s it…”, “I want to fuck you every single day”, and Credence tries not to gag when his mouth is filled with the taste of release, throat prickling and tears welling at the corner of his eyes.

“ _Ahhhh_ …” Mr. Graves is grunting, he realizes, low and so, so hot. Credence is not versed in the dynamic of pleasure and its consequent effect, but he wants this to be perfect, make of it a memorable moment, so he keeps his mouth open like an obedient boy, only closes it when he has drink every tiny nip of it. The flavor is creamy-bitter and slightly sweet, spurred directly into his throat, delicious.  

And because Credence has no manner of comparison, no points of reference, he decides to take Mr. Graves’s word as a fact – the laws of the bible are superfluous here, nothing matters more than him.

“Was it good, sir?” he murmurs, still licking his lips clean.

For a moment, Mr. Graves’s body stays limp, and then he turns his head aside and pats the cushion, gesticulating for Credence to sit at his side. “You were perfect. I’m so proud of you.”      

An arm winds around him, and Credence nuzzles into his chest, feeling safe for the first time in many years, both sleepy and strangely excited, unable to tell where the beatings of one heart ends and the other begins.

“Did I hurt you?”

Credence doesn’t know if he is talking about the slaps or the finger on his tiny, pink hole or the stingy, callous hand bordering on pleasure, but he answers either way, “Y-yes, a little bit, but I liked it. It felt so good when you took control.” he breaths out, stifling back a yawn. “Can we do it again? Like you said we could?”

Mr. Graves sights. “I would never lie to you. But you need to rest first. I’m afraid I have exhausted you.”

“Does that mean I can stay with you?” Credence asks again, titling his face to kiss him on the length of his neck, the skin so open and vulnerable, bared to his whims. “I don’t want to bother you with too much, after everything you have done for me.”

“Anything for my boy,” Mr. Graves promises.

“Please, sir, don’t say that. There is so much I want. Sometimes I feel I’m going to explode.” Credence leans in, and then murmurs against Mr. Graves’s jaw, “I would hate to seem needy.”

Mr. Graves shakes his head. “Never. Don’t forget that. Besides, I like to see you begging."

Reaching for the heels of Credence’s hand, very, very gently, Mr. Graves traces a finger across the skin before kissing it, letter by letter, until Credence “ _oohs_ ” and “ _aahs_ ” feel the room.

“Why don’t you begin by telling me exactly what you want me to do to you?” he asks, pulling Credence to his chest.

With both of his arms, Mr. Graves pushes him down onto the bed, Credence’s body rolling beneath his. He brushes the muss of hairs around his face and combs it between his fingers. At this moment, Credence finds it hard to believe there is more to the world than the felling of Mr. Graves’s body, warm and safe on top of him. He smiles at the corner of his lips, kissing his rough stubble and inhaling the musky smell of their come as he runs a hand along the other man’s back.

Later, when Mr. Graves tucks them up, both eased under the down covers, and asks him to sleep, the sun is already rising on the horizon and the storm subdued.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  First of all, I want to thank [writingramblr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/pseuds/writingramblr) for her kind advices. Please come check her works! This is a gift for you, hope you don’t mind.  
>    
>  Also, I was inspired by [this](http://ohbamby.tumblr.com/post/154941048187) beautiful piece of art on tumblr by ohbamby, as well as all the fanfics I read here on archive of our own (which are a lot, so please don’t ask me, let me keep some of my honor intact). Even the ones outside this pairing serve as an inspiration for me.  
>    
>  The potion that Graves uses on Credence’s wounds is based on the [Star Grass Salve](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Star_Grass_Salve), which actually heals injuries, not like the one portrayed here that only helps with the pain. But, oh well, who cares about being historically correct?  
>    
>  [Here](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KvifGwXsdWA/U4LwGfjx1iI/AAAAAAAAK1g/fb0igROZh08/s1600/page04.jpg) you can find Graves’s room décor. I don’t know why I searched for something like this; let me just say I enjoyed looking at 20s houses more than I should.  
>    
>  For anyone who reads this, thank you! Come annoy me about your favorite pairings on [my tumblr](https://sugarplum-rin.tumblr.com/) or let me know your thoughts here, if you want. I’m slightly eccentric and awkward like Newt, but I’m a good person (when I’m not suffering from insomnia.)  
>    
>  This is my first fanfic, and I’m really nervous about publishing this. Hope it’s not full of mistakes. *awkward smile* I’m too much inpatient for a beta.  
> 


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